


What is to be, if... not at all?

by JadeLoverXD



Series: Random stories of fandoms [20]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: AND BY GOLLY A LOTTA OF EVERYTHING, Alternate Senarios, Dark times call for dark measures, Dear Lord this is alot, F/M, Gotta somehow get out of my comfort zone so here i am, Hybern and The Suriel are just enjoying watching all the drama go down lmao, I regret nothing... I think, I sometimes laugh like a maniac thats high so u should be worried cause im not, LOTTA REGRETS, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prequel to my crossover on wattpad, Rhys has the exaggerated swagger of a High Lord, lotta angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLoverXD/pseuds/JadeLoverXD
Summary: Let's say, the day of the wedding of Prythian's Savior and the High Lord of Spring's wedding was never dramatically crashed by Rhys. Let's say, when Feyre begs for help, he doesn't come to her aid, thinking, she'd be better off without him, and gets 'rip-roaring drunk' with Cassian. Let's say, Rhysand never tells the Inner Circle that Feyre is his mate. Let's say, instead of a decision being made, they both suffer. For years.Let's say, the wedding continues, Feyre is the Lady of Spring, and heirs are brought into this cruel, conniving world. Let's say, the other two Archeron sisters are in danger, that Hybern never invades at this time...Let's say, there are things...other things, worse off in other realities.You never know if you're in the wrong reality, or the right one. But let's say:They're all wrong.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron & Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Series: Random stories of fandoms [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530671
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have been warned, you will hate me, but this is all part of that damn crossover I never finished on wattpad, now I'm being forced to finish it.
> 
> Taken from ACOMAF when Rhys tells Feyre he can't wait to see what'll happen when Tamlin starts kicking out heirs....
> 
> ((be warned most of this chapter is from the book until the last bits at the end))
> 
> #  _BOY IS IT WINDY_

"Don't be nervous," Alis clucked, her tree-bark skin rich and flushed in the honey-gold evening light.

"I'm not," I rasped.

"You're fidgeting like my youngest nephew during a haircut." She finished fussing over my dress, shooing away some servants who'd come to spy on me before the ceremony. I pretended I didn't see them, or the glittering, sunset-gilded crowd seated in the courtyard ahead, and toyed with some invisible fleck of dust on my skirts.

"You look beautiful," Alis said quietly. I was fairly certain her thoughts on the dress were the same as my own, but I believed her.

"Thank you."

"And you sound like you're going to your funeral."

I plastered a grin on my face. Alis rolled her eyes. But she nudged me toward the doors as they opened on some immortal wind, lilting music streaming in. "It'll be over faster than you can blink," she promised, and gently pushed me into the last of the sunlight.

Three hundred people rose to their feet and pivoted toward me. 

Not since my last trial had so many gathered to watch me, judge me. All in finery so similar to what they'd worn Under the Mountain. Their faces blurred, melded.

Alis coughed from the shadows of the house, and I remembered to start walking, to look toward the dais—

At Tamlin.

The breath knocked from me, and it was an effort to keep going down the stairs, to keep my knees from buckling. He was resplendent in a tunic of green and gold, a crown of burnished laurel leaves gleaming on his head. He'd loosened the grip on his glamour, letting that immortal light and beauty shine through for me.

My vision narrowed on him, on my High Lord, his wide eyes glistening as I stepped onto the soft grass, white rose petals scattered down it—

And red ones.

Like drops of blood amongst the white, red petals had been sprayed across the path ahead.

I forced my gaze up, to Tamlin, his shoulders back, head high.

So unaware of the true extent of how broken and dark I was inside.

How unfit I was to be clothed in white when my hands were so filthy.

Everyone else was thinking it. They had to be.

Every step was too fast, propelling me toward the dais and Tamlin. And toward Ianthe, clothed in dark blue robes tonight, beaming beneath that hood and silver crown.

As if I were good, as if I hadn't murdered two of their kind.

I was a murderer and a liar.

A cluster of red petals loomed ahead, just like that Fae youths blood had pooled at my feet.

Ten steps from the dais, at the edge of that splatter of red, I slowed.

Then stopped.

Everyone was watching, exactly as they had when I'd nearly died, spectators to my torment.

Tamlin extended a broad hand, brows narrowing slightly. My heart beat so fast, too fast.

I was going to vomit.

Right over those rose petals; right over the grass and ribbons trailing into the aisle from the chairs flanking it.

And between my skin and bones, something thrummed and pounded, rising and pushing, lashing through my blood—

So many eyes, too many eyes, pressed on me, witnesses to every crime I'd committed, every humiliation—

I dont know why I'd even bothered to wear gloves, why I'd let Ianthe convince me.

The fading sun was too hot, the garden too hedged in. As inescapable as the vow I was about to make, binding me to him forever, shackling him to my broken and weary soul. The thing inside me was roiling now, my body shaking with the building force of it as it hunted for a way out—

Forever—I would never get better, never get free of myself, of that dungeon where I'd spent three months—

"Feyre," Tamlin said, his hand steady as he continued to reach for mine. The sun sank past the lip of the western garden wall; shadows pooled, chilling the air.

If I turned away, they'd start talking, but I couldn't _couldn't_ take the last few steps, _couldn't, couldn't, couldn't—_

I was going to fall apart, right there, right then and they'd see precisely how ruined I was.

_Help me, help me, help me,_ I begged someone, anyone. Begged Lucien, standing in the front row, his metal eye fixed on me. Begged Ianthe, face serene and patient and lovely within that hood. _Save me please, save me. Get me out. End this._

Tamlin took a step toward me, concern shading those eyes.

I retreated a step. _No._

Tamlins mouth tightened. The crowd murmured. Silk streamers laden with globes of gold faelight twinkled into life above and around us.

Ianthe said smoothly, "Come, Bride, and be joined with your true love. Come, Bride, and let good triumph at last."

Good. I was not good. I was nothing, and my soul, my eternal soul, was damned—

I tried to get my traitorous lungs to draw air so I could voice the word. No— _no._

* * *

_Breathe,_ something whispered to me, and air filled my lungs, the sweet smell of the surrounding flowers almost enough to calm me, _Relax._

Beneath the glove—the hand with the tattoo warmed, just like it had whenever I had nightmares.

"Feyre." Tamlin called again, taking me by the shoulders, "Are you alright?"

I looked, around, and people stared, whispered worries and judgement. I looked into his eyes, taking in the emerald green irises and took one last breath, less forced than the last and nodded, _"Yes."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me and my future meanie ways! Cheers!


	2. Fireflies

For the first time in months, I painted.

I painted the sky, blue and vibrant and full of fluffy white clouds; the sun, blindingly bright and giving life to the things underneath it; and under that sky, I painted death.

I painted blood, I painted corpses, and I painted the death bringers.

Afterward, I stared and stared at that painting. I stared until the blood of the two innocents I killed felt like it had reappeared on my hands.

And then the painting was on fire.

Still, I stared. Not bothering to move even as it was reduced to ash and smoke.

After that, I started another, and another.

This time, I painted blood-red hair, a mouth that curved up into a cruel grin, and a dias that was carved from bone. I painted every single detail that refused to release its hold onto me, and by the time I was finished, the sun had set below the horizon.

Neither Tamlin nor Lucien had decided to come and drag me away from the easel as I started the last. I'd wished they did, just in case I painted another portrait that would make me burn.

I painted a flower, fiery and red and blooming amongst a dead battlefield. I painted a circle of flora on top of the scorched ground...

And the sky was blue as mine was black. So dark that not even a shred of light could cut through. That painting, I did not burn, instead, I saved it, behind the dusty old shelves that no one ever ventured past.

I never looked back at the paintings, usually, I did, but I couldn't. Not this time.

I wanted to keep painting everything that I felt until this strange feeling ceased. But even then, it took me to feel a certain sense before I could do anything.

* * *

Rhysand felt sick the day Feyre had gotten married. 

He'd drug Cassian along with him to get rip-roaring drunk the moment Feyre said her vows. He could've interrupted it, called in their bargain just to not want it to happen, to save them both the suffering, but he didn't. And he was a coward for it, and they suffered for it.

Over the years, as he hoped, the mating bond between them didn't vanish. It was just a long line of aching and being miserable. He kept his side tightly shut, cut off everything of himself that wanted her...

The first time he had seen her face-to-face after Amarantha's defeat was in twenty years. Barely recognizable and almost that of a husk.

When Tamiln had departed for a day, he'd approached her, the familiar scent of lilacs touching his nose. Feyre had shied away from him then, almost in fear, and refused to speak to him at all. He'd confronted

Lucien, demanded to know what Tamlin was doing to her until he got his answer.

"He's refusing to let her out of the house." The redhead told him, "Me and Alis are doing the best we can, leaving subtle hints that Feyre should at least wander around the grounds with me and a few sentries—everything was fine after the marriage. Until she was nearly assassinated." 

His hands curled slightly in his pockets, "And what exactly does Tamlin plan on solving by leaving her in the house?" If anything, he'd be only doing the work of the people that wanted her dead.

The second time had been eighty-four years and ten days later...

She looked better than she had all those years ago. Almost.

And... less pregnant. And without three borne children.

Her eldest son stood next to her, a spitting image of mostly her than Tamlin, the rest, he assumed, were back in Spring. Tamlin approached him and the rest of his court—

And they all stood, glaring at him—save for Feyre, who hesitantly rubbed at her chest, over her heart. _I'm not the only one that feels it as well._

"Feyre Darling, so nice to see you again." He purred, bowing at the waist and inclined his head to the Spring Court offspring, who kept his wary eyes on him. A strange calling emitted from him, like a song almost similar to the one his soul sang to hers. You are new, you are known. It seemed to say.

"I need you to break the bargain." Rhys blinked slowly, not sure if he heard him right, "Right now."

He clicks his tongue, giving Feyre's tattooed arm a once-over, "You know I cannot do that, Tamlin." Cassian leaned forward in his seat, and the shadows around Az has shifted just barely, "The only way to break it is death."

"Tamlin—" Feyre started. He half-turned towards her.

"He hasn't called it in yet and I'm sick of seeing that tattoo each time I look at you." Rhys slides his hands in his pockets, the movement so casual that made Tamlin turn his glare back to him, "Break it now."

"Are you that dumb Flowerpot or are you choosing to ignore what he just said?" Cassian asked cooly before he could stop him. The two Illyrians had been quiet for the most part, silently watching the exchange between the four until they knew they were done. 

"The only way I can rid of it is if I call in the bargain." He says after a short pause, looking over Tamlin's shoulder to meet Feyre's blue-grey gaze, looking away only when she turns her eyes to the floor.

"Absolutely not." The heir took a step in front of his mother—either to defend her or start a fight he wouldn't finish. "She isn't going anywhere with you."

"That's not for you to decide." Feyre remained silent, not saying anything but his name. His jaw clenched, but his eyes remained bored as he spoke, "Don't you think Feyre Darling decides?" _Don't let him put you down again. Don't let him._

"I—" She hesitates, gently nudging her son aside, "Call in the bargain. Whatever it is." Relief had settled deep within his soul, so much that he almost forgot that she wasn't mated to him and let that barrier between them down.

Now he knows what Helium feels for the Lady of Autumn.

"Feyre—"

"Tamlin, I'll be fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have made a new discovery....  
> The fact that I love killing precious characters and hurting them
> 
> Also: I'm thinking about doing one with Rowan and Aelin how ya think about that?!   
> Also: Also: don't try to stop me   
> NOW LET'S CRY IN A CORNERRRRRR


End file.
